


Blood bound

by Piqueniale



Series: Rainbowhunters [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Ace!Simon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Simon Lewis, Bisexual Clary Fray, Bisexual!Clary, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, No Incest, Pan!Izzy, Pansexual Isabelle Lightwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piqueniale/pseuds/Piqueniale
Summary: Within twenty-four hours of meeting the gorgeous brunette, Clary has already been pulled into Izzy's world. With her mother MIA and the redhead herself in danger, the Shadowhunters of the New York Institute are ready to give a hand, or six, to help the newbie.Basically, the shadowhunters we all know and love, but slightly edited, featuring Clizzy as the main pairing, without any incest, and adding a pinch of gay. Oops! Now it is a whole bucket.Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com





	1. PAN!demonium

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes you just want to read the story you know and love but with, you know, more gay. And a couple of twists.
> 
> But you know, all the disclaimer standards: I own nothing, I wish I did, I would make it gayer (wait, I'm already doing that), and all rights and blah blah go to the actual owners.
> 
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com

"You've got to be kidding me," the bouncer said, folding his arms across his massive chest. He stared down at the boy in the red zip-up jacket and shook his shaved head. "You can't bring that thing in here."

The fifty or so teenagers in line outside the PAN!demonium Club leaned forward to eavesdrop. It was a long wait to get into the all-ages club, especially on a Sunday, and not much generally happened in line. The bouncers were fierce and would come down instantly on anyone who looked like they were going to start trouble. Fifteen-year-old Clary Fray, standing in line with her best friend, Simon, leaned forward along with everyone else, hoping for some excitement.

"Aw, come on." The kid hoisted the thing up over his head. It looked like a wooden beam, pointed at one end. "It's part of my costume."

The bouncer raised an eyebrow. "Which is what?"

The boy grinned. He was normal-enough-looking, Clary thought, for PAN!demonium. He had electric blue dyed hair that stuck up around his head like the tendrils of a startled octopus, but no elaborate facial tattoos or big metal bars through his ears or lips. "I'm a vampire hunter." He pushed down on the wooden thing. It bent as easily as a blade of grass bending sideways. "It's fake. Foam rubber. See?" The boy's wide eyes were way too bright a green, Clary's artistic side noticed: the color of antifreeze, spring grass. Colored contact lenses, probably.

The bouncer shrugged, abruptly bored. "Whatever. Go on in." The boy slid past him, quick as an eel. Clary liked the lilt to his shoulders, the way he tossed his hair as he went. There was a word for him that her mother would have used- _insouciant_.

"He was cute," said Simon, sounding resigned. "Wasn't he?"

Clary dug her elbow into his ribs, but didn't answer. She didn't have to.

* * *

Inside, the club was full of dry-ice smoke. Colored lights played over the dance floor, turning it into a multicolored fairyland of blues and acid greens, hot pinks and golds. Clary stared at everything awestruck, the redhead almost wished she had brought her sketchbook with her. Simon interrupted her trail of thoughts by gently nudging her to move forward and, not for the first time, she wondered how two humans so drastically different had become family.

At the other side of the club, the boy in the red jacket stroked the long razor-sharp blade in his hands, an idle smile playing over his lips. It had been so easy-a little bit of a glamour on the blade, to make it look harmless. Another glamour on his eyes, and the moment the bouncer had looked straight at him, he was in. Of course, he could probably have gotten by without all that trouble, but it was part of the fun-fooling the mundies, doing it all out in the open right in front of them, getting off on the blank looks on their sheeplike faces.

Not that the humans didn't have their uses. The boy's green eyes scanned the dance floor, where slender limbs clad in scraps of silk and black leather appeared and disappeared inside the revolving columns of smoke as the mundies danced. Girls tossed their long hair, boys swung their leather-clad hips, and bare skin glittered with sweat. Vitality just poured off them, waves of energy that filled him with a drunken dizziness. His lip curled. They didn't know how lucky they were. They didn't know what it was like to eke out life in a dead world, where the sun hung limp in the sky like a burned cinder. Their lives burned as brightly as candle flames-and were as easy to snuff out.

His hand tightened on the blade he carried, and he had begun to step out onto the dance floor when a girl broke away from the mass of dancers and began walking toward him. He stared at her. She was beautiful, for a human-long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, charcoaled eyes. Floor-length white gown, the kind women used to wear when this world was younger. Lace sleeves belled out around her slim arms. Around her neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark red pendant the size of a baby's fist. He only had to narrow his eyes to know that it was real-real and precious. His mouth started to water as she neared him. Vital energy pulsed from her like blood from an open wound. She smiled, passing him, beckoning with her eyes. He turned to follow her, tasting the phantom sizzle of her death on his lips.

It was always easy. He could already feel the power of her evaporating life coursing through his veins like fire. Humans were so stupid. They had something so precious, and they barely safeguarded it at all. They threw away their lives for money, for packets of powder, for a stranger's charming smile. The girl was a pale ghost retreating through the colored smoke. She reached the wall and turned, bunching her skirt up in her hands, lifting it as she grinned at him. Under the skirt, she was wearing thigh-high boots.

He sauntered up to her, his skin prickling with her nearness. Up close she wasn't so perfect: He could see the mascara smudged under her eyes, the sweat sticking her hair to her neck. He could smell her mortality, the sweet rot of corruption. _Got you_ , he thought.

A cool smile curled her lips. She moved to the side, and he could see that she was leaning against a closed door, no admittance-storage was scrawled across it in red paint. She reached behind her for the knob, turned it, slid inside. He caught a glimpse of stacked boxes, tangled wiring. A storage room. He glanced behind him-no one was looking. So much the better if she wanted privacy.

He slipped into the room after her, unaware that he was being followed.

* * *

"So," Simon said, nervously scratching his neck, "pretty good music, uh?"

Clary didn't reply, again. They were dancing, or what passed for it- a lot of swaying back and forth with occasional lunges toward the floor as if one of them had dropped a contact lens-in a space between a group of teenage boys in metallic corsets, and a young Asian couple who were making out passionately, their colored hair extensions tangled together like vines. A boy with a lip piercing and a teddy bear backpack was handing out free tablets of herbal ecstasy, his parachute pants flapping in the breeze from the wind machine. Clary wasn't paying much attention to their immediate surroundings-her eyes were on the blue-haired boy who'd talked his way into the club. He was prowling through the crowd as if he were looking for something. There was something about the way he moved that reminded her of something… She felt a tug somewhere inside her.

"I, for one," Simon went on, "am enjoying myself immensely."

This seemed unlikely, not to mention a blatant lie. Simon, as always, stuck out at the club like a sore thumb, in jeans and an old T-shirt that said made in Brooklyn across the front. His freshly scrubbed hair was dark brown instead of green or pink, and his glasses perched crookedly on the end of his nose. He looked less as if he were contemplating the powers of darkness and more as if he were on his way to chess club.

"Mmm-hmm." Clary knew perfectly well that he came to PAN!demonium with her only because she liked it, that he thought it was boring. She wasn't even sure why it was that she liked it- the clothes, the music made it like a dream, someone else's life, not her boring real life at all. But she was always too shy to talk to anyone but Simon. She kind of hoped maybe one day she would have the confidence to approach the next cute blue-haired boy, or girl. She was not opposed to either.

Speaking of which, the current blue-haired guy was making his way off the dance floor. He looked a little lost, as if he hadn't found whom he was looking for. Clary wondered what would happen if she acted brave, if she went up and introduced herself, offered to show him around. Maybe he'd just stare at her. Or maybe he was shy too. Maybe he'd be grateful and pleased, and try not to show it, the way boys did- but she'd know. Maybe-

The blue-haired boy straightened up suddenly, snapping to attention, like a hunting dog on point. Clary followed the line of his gaze, and saw _The Girl_ in the white dress.

 _Oh, well_ , Clary thought, trying not to feel like a deflated party balloon. _I guess that's that_. The girl was gorgeous, the kind of girl Clary would have liked to draw-tall and ribbon-slim, with a long spill of black hair. Even at this distance Clary could see the red pendant around her throat. It pulsed under the lights of the dance floor like a separate, disembodied heart. She felt her own beat slightly faster, doting her cheeks of a pinkish tone she prayed was not too noticeable. Simon clearly did not realize, at least, as he kept rambling while Clary thanked God for the club's low lights.

"I feel," Simon went on, "that this evening DJ Bat is doing a singularly exceptional job. Don't you agree?"

Clary rolled her eyes and didn't answer; Simon hated trance music. Her attention was on the girl in the white dress. Through the darkness, smoke, and artificial fog, her pale dress shone out like a beacon, and, somehow, she managed to as well. No wonder the blue-haired boy was following her as if he were under a spell, too distracted to notice anything else around him-even the two dark shapes hard on his heels, weaving after him through the crowd. She suspected, were she in his position, she would be in a similar state.

Clary slowed her dancing and stared. She could just make out that the shapes were boys, tall and wearing black clothes. She couldn't have said how she knew that they were following the other boy, but she did. She could see it in the way they paced him, their careful watchfulness, the slinking grace of their movements. A small flower of apprehension began to open inside her chest.

"Meanwhile," Simon added, "I wanted to tell you that lately I've been cross-dressing. Also, I'm sleeping with your mom. I thought you should know."

"You say it like it like cross-dressing is ridiculous. It is not. Everyone should be able to freely embrace their gender identity or expression of it however they want: fashion, art and make up can be an art in themselves, you know? You sleeping with my mom, though, that one _IS_ ridiculous." Clary replied, so annoyed she almost lost sight of the girl.  The brunette had reached the wall, and was opening a door marked no admittance. She beckoned the blue-haired boy after her, and they slipped through the door. It wasn't anything Clary hadn't seen before, a couple sneaking off to the dark corners of the club to make out-but that made it even weirder that they were being followed.

She raised herself up on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. The two guys had stopped at the door and seemed to be conferring with each other. One of them was dark-haired, the other blond. The blond one reached into his jacket and drew out something long and sharp that flashed under the lights. A knife. "Simon!" Clary shouted, and seized his arm.

"What?" Simon looked alarmed.

"Do you see those guys?" She pointed wildly, almost hitting a curvy black girl who was dancing nearby. The girl shot her an evil look. "Sorry-sorry!" Clary turned back to Simon. "Do you see those two guys over there? By that door?"

Simon squinted, then shrugged. "I don't see anything."

"There are two of them. They were following the guy with the blue hair-"

"The one you thought was cute?"

"You did too, but that's not the point. The blond one pulled a knife."

"Are you _sure_?" Simon stared harder, shaking his head. "I still don't see anyone."

"I'm sure."

Suddenly all business, Simon squared his shoulders. "I'll get one of the security guards. You stay here." He strode away, pushing through the crowd.

Clary turned just in time to see the boys slip through the no admittance door. She looked around; Simon was still trying to shove his way across the dance floor, but he wasn't making much progress. Even if she yelled now, no one would hear her, and by the time Simon got back, something terrible might _already_ have happened to the girl, and to the guy, of course. She could not let ~~her~~ them get hurt, or worse. Biting hard on her lower lip, Clary started to wriggle through the crowd.

* * *

"What's your name?"

She turned and smiled. What faint light there was in the storage room spilled down through high barred windows smeared with dirt. Piles of electrical cables, along with broken bits of mirrored disco balls and discarded paint cans littered the floor.

"Isabelle."

"That's a nice name." He walked toward her, stepping carefully among the wires in case any of them were live. In the faint light she looked half-transparent, bleached of color, wrapped in white like an angel. It would be a pleasure to make her fall…"I haven't seen you here before."

"You're asking me if I come here often?" She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. There was some sort of bracelet around her wrist, just under the cuff of her dress-then, as he neared her, he saw that she also had a pattern inked into her skin, a matrix of swirling lines.

He froze. "You-"

He didn't finish. She moved with lightning swiftness, striking out at him with her open hand, a blow to his chest that would have sent him down gasping if he'd been a human being. He staggered back, and now there was something in her hand, a coiling whip that glinted white gold as she brought it down, curling around his ankles, jerking him off his feet. He hit the ground, writhing, the hated metal biting deep into his skin. She laughed, standing over him, and dizzily he thought that he should have _known_. No human girl would wear a dress like the one Isabelle wore. She'd worn it to cover her skin-all of her skin.

"It's a shame you noticed, I was really looking forward to hearing all the classic pick-up lines. It could have been fun."  Isabelle yanked hard on the whip, securing it. Her smile glittered like poisonous water. "You're late, _I_ already got him, boys."

A low laugh sounded behind him, and now there were hands on him, hauling him upright, throwing him against one of the concrete pillars. He could feel the damp stone under his back. His hands were pulled behind him, his wrists bound with wire. As he struggled, someone walked around the side of the pillar into his view: a boy, as young as Isabelle and just as pretty. His tawny eyes glittered like chips of amber. "So," the boy said. "Are there any more with you?"

The blue-haired boy could feel blood welling up under the too-tight metal, making his wrists slippery. "Any other what?"

"Come on now." The tawny-eyed boy held up his hands, and his dark sleeves slipped down, showing the runes inked all over his wrists, the backs of his hands, his palms. "You know what I am."

Far back inside his skull, the shackled boy's second set of teeth began to grind.

" _Shadowhunter_ ," he hissed.

The other boy grinned all over his face. "Looks like we got one smart soon-dead cookie," he said.

* * *

 

Clary pushed the door to the storage room open, and stepped inside. For a moment she thought it was deserted. The only windows were high up and barred; faint street noise came through them, the sound of honking cars and squealing brakes. The room smelled familiar, like old paint, and a heavy layer of dust covered the floor, marked by smeared shoe prints.

 _There's no one in here_ , she realized, looking around in bewilderment. It was cold in the room, despite the August heat outside. Her back was icy with sweat. She took a step forward, tangling her feet in electrical wires. She bent down to free her sneaker from the cables-and heard voices. A girl's laugh, a boy answering sharply. When she straightened up, she saw ~~her~~ them.

It was as if they had sprung into existence between one blink of her eyes and the next. There was the girl in her long white dress, her black hair hanging down her back in perfect waves. The two boys were with her-the tall one with black hair like hers, and the smaller, fair one. The fair boy was standing with his hands in his pockets, facing the punk kid, who was tied to a pillar with what looked like piano wire, his hands stretched behind him, his legs bound at the ankles. His face was pulled tight with pain and fear.

Heart hammering in her chest, Clary ducked behind the nearest concrete pillar and peered around it. She watched as the fair-haired boy paced back and forth, his arms now crossed over his chest. "So," he said. "You still haven't told me if there are any other of your kind with you."

 _Your kind?_ Clary wondered what he was talking about. Maybe she'd stumbled into some kind of gang war.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The blue-haired boy's tone was pained but surly.

"He means demons, other demons," said the dark-haired boy, speaking for the first time. "You do know what a demon is, don't you?"

The boy tied to the pillar turned his face away, his mouth working.

"Demons," drawled the blond boy, tracing the word on the air with his finger. "Religiously defined as hell's denizens, the servants of Satan, but understood here, for the purposes of the Clave, to be any malevolent spirit whose origin is outside our own home dimension-"

"That's enough, Jace," said the ~~gorgeous?~~ ~~scary?~~   ~~benevolent apparently?~~ girl.

"Izzy's right," agreed the taller boy. "Nobody here needs a lesson in semantics-or demonology."

 _Izzy_. Clary could get used to hearing it. Maybe even saying it, if the chance arose. That was besides the point, however, the thing was that  _these_ _guys were 100% nuts._ _Insane, actually crazy, metal, bonkers-_

Jace raised his head and smiled. "Isabelle and Alec think I talk too much," he said, confidingly. "Do _you_ think I talk too much?"

The blue-haired boy didn't reply. His mouth was still working. "I could give you information," he said. "I know where Valentine is."

Jace glanced back at Alec, who shrugged. "Valentine's in the ground," Jace said. "The thing's just toying with us."

Isabelle tossed her hair. "I say we kill him, he's not going to tell us anything, and if he did, it'd not be true anyway."

"It," the tall one corrected, reflexively.

Jace raised his hand, and Clary saw dim light spark off the knife he was holding. It was oddly translucent, the blade clear as crystal, sharp as a shard of glass, the hilt set with red stones.

The bound boy gasped. "Valentine is back!" he protested, dragging at the bonds that held his hands behind his back. "All the Infernal Worlds know it-I know it-I can tell you where he is-"

Rage flared suddenly in Jace's icy eyes. "By the Angel, every time we capture one of you bastards, you claim you know where Valentine is. Well, we know where he is too. He's in hell. And you-" Jace turned the knife in his grasp, the edge sparking like a line of fire. "You can _join him there_."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, "007, you're such a dram-"

Clary could take no more. She stepped out from behind the pillar. "Stop!" she cried. "You can't do this."

Jace whirled, so startled that the knife flew from his hand and clattered against the concrete floor. Isabelle and Alec turned along with him, wearing identical expressions of astonishment. The blue-haired boy hung in his bonds, stunned and gaping.

"Great! What now?" A very angry Alec spoke, "what is this? what are you?"

"It's a girl," Isabelle said. "Surely you've seen girls before, Alec. I am one." She took a step closer to Clary, squinting as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "A mundie girl with the sight," she said, half to herself, a small smile blooming without her consent.

"I'm not blind, you know," Clary said.

"Oh, but you are," said Jace, bending to pick up his knife. "You just don't know it." He straightened up. "You'd better get out of here, if you know what's good for you."

"I'm not going anywhere," Clary said. "If I do, you'll kill him." She pointed at the boy with the blue hair.

"That's true," admitted Alec, grabbing the knife and twirling it between his fingers. "But what do you care?"

"Be-because-," Clary spluttered. "You can't just go around killing people."

"You're right," said Jace. "You can't go around killing people." He pointed at the boy with blue hair, whose eyes were slitted. Clary wondered if he'd fainted. "That's not a person, little girl. It may look like a person and talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person. But it's a monster."

" _Jace_ ," said Isabelle warningly. "That's enough."

"You're crazy," Clary said, backing away from them. "I've called the police, you know. They'll be here any second."

"She's lying," said Alec, but there was a trace of doubt on his face for a second. "And if she's not, it doesn't matter. We can take care of them." With a fast movement, Alec threw the knife, which flew millimeters away from Clary's head. The redhead was positive she might just have peed herself a bit.

" _Alec!_ " Isabelle shouted, "this is why I don't have any girlfriends!"

 _I could be yours_ , thought Clary, hormones surpassing fear.

But her thought were cut short when, at that precise moment, the blue-haired boy, with a high, yowling cry, tore free of the restraints binding him to the pillar, and flung himself on Jace.

They fell to the ground and rolled together, the blue-haired boy tearing at Jace with hands that glittered as if tipped with metal. Clary backed up, wanting to run, but her feet caught on a loop of wiring and she went down, knocking the breath out of her chest. She could hear Isabelle shouting. Rolling over, Clary saw the blue-haired boy sitting on Jace's chest. Blood gleamed at the tips of his razor-like claws. Alec stood paralyzed.  Isabelle started running towards them, brandishing a whip in her hand. She pulled the tall boy along, which seemed to snap him out of his daze. The blue-haired boy slashed at Jace with claws extended. Jace threw an arm up to protect himself, and the claws raked it, splattering blood. The blue-haired boy lunged again-and Izzy's whip came down across his back. He shrieked and fell to the side, still alive. Without missing a beat, he charged, slamming straight into Isabelle, whose whip was pretty useless in such short distances. She fell down hard, which caused Alec to spring into action.

"Not my family!" He shouted, crouching while supporting himself on his hands and one feet, allowing his free leg to slam into the creature's skull with extra force, sending it to the floor and, then, to the wall.

"Izzy! Izzy, are you hurt?" Alec touched his sister, concerned.

She nodded in response, "not a scratch. Go help Jace, he needs an Iratze ASAP, I will be taking care of this."

He was about to disagree when he turned to see the blond, who sat against a corner, looking like he might pass out at any second. "You sure?"

"Yeah, GO!" Isabelle shoved him away, and extracted a glowing dagger from her boot. She turned towards the monster, who seemed to be slowly recovering from the fight, still not fully steady on its legs. "Let's dance, Sid."

* * *

Clary tried to look away. She did. She had been raised hating war, and any kind of fighting or confrontation really, but that? That was art. Isabelle's moves were so fluent, going through different well-practiced routines as it was convenient, easily shifting the weight from one leg to the other, reacting before Clary could even see what was happening. It was so fast, a beautiful blur, and the redhead again wished she could capture the everything about that night to draw it later. _Well, maybe not everything, on second thought._ The agile panther-like girl was definitely a must, though. She was fierce, and Clary briefly wondered if there was any chance Isabelle had ever been defeated. The redhead seriously doubted so, and with reason.

In the blink of an eye, Izzy had the blue-haired brute against the wall and was pushing her dagger through his heart, if it had one, which Clary was not sure about anymore. The boy's eyes rolled back. His body began to jerk and twitch as he crumpled, folding in on himself, growing smaller and smaller until he vanished entirely. His killer smiled, self-satisfied, and turning around, as if just realizing the "mundie" was still there, smirked cockily. Clary's throat became dry and her cheeks flushed, yet again. Upon noticing, Izzy winked, before turning around to pick up her discarded whip, as well as cleaning and saving her blade.

Suddenly, Clary felt hyper aware of her position. The redhead scrambled to her feet, kicking free of the electrical wiring. She began to back away. None of them were paying attention to her. Alec had reached Jace and was holding him, pulling at the bottom of his shirt, probably trying to get a good look at all the wounds in his chest. Clary turned to run-and found her way blocked by Isabelle, whip in hand. The length of it was still stained with dark fluid. She flicked it toward Clary, and the end wrapped itself around her wrist and jerked tight. Clary gasped with pain and surprise.

"Sorry, babe, cannot let you go, you have seen too much," Isabelle said. "Plus, you could have gotten Jace killed." She added.

"Babe? I am not your babe. And Jace's crazy! He'd have gotten himself killed, or you would, not me!" Clary said, trying to pull her wrist back. The whip bit deeper into her skin. It was seriously making her angry, Izzy was supposed to be the nice one and suddenly she was kidnapping her? Fuck that. If the shadowhunter looked a bit hurt because of Clary's accusations, all the better. It was not exactly as if they were untrue, anyway. "You're all crazy. What do you think you are, vigilante killers? The police-"

"The police aren't usually interested unless you can produce a body," said Jace. Cradling his right arm, while also protecting his torso, he picked his way across the cable-strewn floor toward Clary. Alec followed behind him, face screwed into a scowl.

Clary glanced at the spot where the boy had disappeared from, and said nothing. There wasn't even a smear of blood there-nothing to show that the boy had ever existed.

"They return to their home dimensions when they die," said Jace. "In case you were wondering."

"Jace," Alec hissed. "Be careful."

Jace drew his arm away. A ghoulish freckling of blood marked his face. Clary almost wanted to laugh at it, but the tight grasp around her wrist made her regret that thought as soon as it can.

"She can see us, Alec," Isabelle said. "She already knows too much."

"So what do say we do with her, mhm?" Alec demanded.

"Maybe we should bring her back with us," Jace said. "I bet Hodge would like to talk to her."

"Hey! I am not going anywhere!" Clary intervened. 

"No way are we bringing her to the Institute," Alec replied, ignoring her. "She's a _mundie_."

"Izzy?" Jace looked at her hopeful.

Isabelle seemed to think about it for a second before voicing her opinion, "she doesn't want to come. We do not kidnap _mundies_  for no reason."  _Thank God someone has half a brain!_ Clary said to herself.

Jace jumped at that. "But there is! Don't you see?"

"Well..."  _Never mind._

Clary was seriously considering just trying to rip the whip off and make a run for it. No matter the outcome of the discussion, she was not too keen on putting her fate in their hands.

The plan never took place, however, mostly due to Simon's sudden apparition, that prompted Isabelle to release her, while Jace kept mouthing something along the lines of  _what are you doing? No! Don't let her go._

"Clary?" He was standing by the storage room door. One of the burly bouncers who'd been stamping hands at the front door was next to him. "Are you okay?" He peered at her through the gloom. "Why are you in here by yourself? What happened to the guys-you know, the ones with the knives?"

Clary stared at him, then looked behind her, where an apologetic Jace, an amused Isabelle, and a bored Alec stood, Jace still in his bloody shirt. Clearly they weren't surprised that neither Simon nor the bouncer could see them.

Somehow neither was Clary. Slowly she turned back to Simon, knowing how she must look to him, standing alone in a damp storage room, her feet tangled in bright plastic wiring cables. "I thought they went in here," she said lamely. "But I guess they didn't. I'm sorry." She glanced from Simon, whose expression was changing from worried to embarrassed, to the bouncer, who just looked annoyed. "It was a mistake."

Behind her, Isabelle giggled. As much as Clary wanted to be mad, she had to admit it was sort of an adorable sound.

* * *

 

"I don't believe it," Simon said stubbornly as Clary, standing at the curb, tried desperately to hail a cab. Street cleaners had come down Orchard while they were inside the club, and the street was glossed black with oily water.

"I know," she agreed. "You'd think there'd be _one_ cab. Where is everyone going at midnight on a Sunday?" She turned back to him, shrugging. "You think we'd have better luck on Houston?"

"Not the cabs," Simon said. "You-I don't believe you. I don't believe those guys with the knives just disappeared."

Clary sighed. "Maybe there weren't any guys with knives, Simon. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing."

"No way." Simon raised his hand over his head, but the oncoming taxis whizzed by him, spraying dirty water. "I saw your face when I came into that storage room. You looked seriously freaked out, like you were about to run for your life."

She glanced down at her wrist, braceleted by a thin red line where Isabelle's whip had curled. _No, not a ghost,_ she thought. _Something even weirder than that._

"It was just a mistake," she said wearily. She wondered why she wasn't telling him the truth. Except, of course, that he'd think she was crazy. And there was something about what had happened-something about the black blood bubbling up around Isabelle's whip, something about her eyes when she'd scanned her, something that she wanted to keep to herself.

"Well, it was a hell of an embarrassing mistake," Simon said. He glanced back at the club, where a thin line still snaked out the door and halfway down the block. "I doubt they'll ever let us back into PAN!demonium."

"What do you care?" Clary grimaced slightly, suddenly reminded of Alec. "You hate PAN!demonium." Clary raised her hand again as a yellow shape sped toward them through the fog. This time, though, the taxi screeched to a halt at their corner, the driver laying into his horn as if he needed to get their attention.

"Finally we get lucky." Simon yanked the taxi door open and slid onto the plastic-covered backseat. Clary followed, inhaling the familiar New York cab smell of old cigarette smoke, leather, and hair spray. "We're going to Brooklyn," Simon said to the cabbie, and then he turned to Clary. "Look, you know you can tell me anything, right?"

Clary hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Sure, Simon," she said. "I know I can."

She slammed the cab door shut behind her, and the taxi took off into the night.

 


	2. Secrets, fanart and lies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Clary went to a Club and found herself face to face with some incredibly gorgeous shadowhunters and one incredibly terrifying demon, so she wants to be mad, but she really can't cause she met a hot chick who she can't really get mad at and holy fuck, was Simon a pain in the ass all night, that one DID make her mad. But she kind of forgives him because they have been friends forever and she has other things in her mind and that is what you missed on BB! *cue Glee's intro*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again :) find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com

_The dark princess sat astride her black dragon, her whip by her side. A silver circlet bound her dark locks, her beautiful face was filled with mischief , and…_

"And her arm looked like an eggplant," Clary muttered to herself in exasperation. The drawing just wasn't working. With a sigh she tore yet another sheet from her sketchpad, crumpled it up, and tossed it against the orange wall of her bedroom. Already the floor was littered with discarded balls of paper, a sure sign that her creative juices weren't flowing the way she'd hoped. She wished for the thousandth time that she could be a bit more like her mother. Everything Jocelyn Fray drew, painted, or sketched was beautiful, and seemingly effortless.

Clary pulled her headphones out-cutting off The Naked And Famous in midsong-and rubbed her aching temples. It was only then that she became aware that the loud, piercing sound of a ringing telephone was echoing through the apartment. Tossing the sketchpad onto the bed, she jumped to her feet and ran into the living room, where the retro-red phone sat on a table near the front door.

"Is this Clarissa Fray?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar, though not immediately identifiable.

Clary twirled the phone cord nervously around her finger. "Yeees?"

"Hi, I'm one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in PAN!demonium? I'm afraid I made a bad impression and was hoping you'd give me a chance to make it up to-"

"SIMON!" Clary held the phone away from her ear as he cracked up laughing. "That is so not funny!"

"Sure it is. You just don't see the humor."

"Jerk."

"I'd bet it is the redhead genes, kind of like when Bart Simpson had no soul and h-"

Clary sighed, leaning up against the wall. "You wouldn't be laughing if you'd been here when I got home last night."

"Why not?"

"My mom. She wasn't happy that we were late. She freaked out. It was messy."

"What? It's not our fault there was traffic!" Simon protested. He was the youngest of three children and had a finely honed sense of familial injustice.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't see it that way. I disappointed her, I let her down, I made her worry, blah blah blah. I am the _bane_ of her _existence_ ," Clary said, mimicking her mother's precise phrasing with only a slight twinge of guilt.

"So, are you grounded?" Simon asked, a little too loudly. Clary could hear a low rumble of voices behind him; people talking over each other.

"I don't know yet," she said. "My mom went out this morning with Luke, and they're not back yet. Where are you, anyway? _Eric's_?"

"Yeah. We just finished up practice." A cymbal clashed behind Simon, who was oblivious to Clary's teasing. Clary winced. "Eric's doing a poetry reading over at Java Jones tonight," Simon went on, naming a coffee shop around the corner from Clary's that sometimes had live music at night. "The whole band's going to go to show their support." Clary was almost sure Simon was the one who had suggested it. "Want to come?"

"Yeah, all right." Clary paused, tugging on the phone cord anxiously. "Wait, no."

"Shut up, guys, will you?" Simon yelled, the faintness of his voice making Clary suspect that he was holding the phone away from his mouth. He was back a second later, sounding troubled. "Was that a yes or a no?"

"I don't know." Clary bit her lip. "My mom's still mad at me about last night. I'm not sure I want to piss her off by asking for any favors. If I'm going to get in trouble, I don't want it to be on account of Eric's lousy poetry."

"Come on, it's not so bad," Simon said. Eric was his next-door neighbor, and the two had known each other most of their lives. They had formed a rock band together at the start of sophomore year, along with Eric's friends Matt and Kirk. They practiced together faithfully in Eric's parents' garage every week. "Besides, it's not a favor," Simon added, "it's a poetry slam around the block from your house. It's not like I'm inviting you to some orgy in Hoboken. Your mom can come along if she wants."

"ORGY IN HOBOKEN!" Clary heard someone, probably Eric, yell. Another cymbal crashed. She imagined her mother listening to Eric read his poetry, Simon making googly eyes at him, and she shuddered inwardly.

"I don't know. If all of you show up here, I think she'll freak."

"Then I'll come alone. I'll pick you up and we can walk over there together, meet the rest of them there. Your mom won't mind. She loves me."

Clary had to laugh. "Sign of her questionable taste, if you ask me."

"Nobody did." Simon clicked off, amid shouts from his bandmates.

Clary hung up the phone and glanced around the living room. Evidence of her mother's artistic tendencies were everywhere, from the handmade velvet throw pillows piled on the dark red sofa to the walls hung with Jocelyn's paintings, carefully framed-landscapes, mostly: the winding streets of downtown Manhattan lit with golden light; scenes of Prospect Park in winter, the gray ponds edged with lace-like films of white ice.

On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Clary's father. A thoughtful-looking fair man in military dress, his eyes bore the telltale traces of laugh lines at the corners. He'd been a decorated soldier serving overseas. Jocelyn had some of his medals in a small box by her bed. Not that the medals had done anyone any good when Jonathan Clark had crashed his car into a tree just outside Albany and died before his daughter was even born.

Jocelyn had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Clary's father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, J. C, next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Jocelyn took the box out and opened it and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.

The sound of the key turning in the front door roused Clary out of her reverie. Hastily she threw herself down on the couch and tried to look as if she were immersed in one of the paperbacks her mother had left stacked on the end table. Jocelyn recognized reading as a sacred pastime and usually wouldn't interrupt Clary in the middle of a book, even to yell at her.

The door opened with a thump. It was Luke, his arms full of what looked like big square pieces of pasteboard. When he set them down, Clary saw that they were cardboard boxes, folded flat. He straightened up and turned to her with a smile.

"Hey, Un-hey, Luke," she said. He'd asked her to stop calling him Uncle Luke about a year ago, claiming that it made him feel old, and anyway reminded him of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Besides, he'd reminded her gently, he wasn't really her uncle, just a close friend of her mother's who'd known her all her life. "Where's Mom?"

"Parking the truck," he said, straightening his lanky frame with a groan. He was dressed in his usual uniform: old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bent pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat askew on the bridge of his nose. "Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?"

"Because it's old, and has _character_ ," Clary said immediately. Luke grinned. "What are the boxes for?" she asked.

His grin vanished. "Your mother wanted to pack up some things," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"What things?" Clary asked.

He gave an airy wave. "Extra stuff lying around the house. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So what are you up to? Studying?" He plucked the book out of her hand and read out loud: _"The world still teems with those motley beings whom a more sober philosophy has discarded. Fairies and goblins, ghosts and demons, still hover about -"_ He lowered the book and looked at her over his glasses. "Is this for school?"

" _The Golden Bough?_ No. School's not for a few weeks." Clary took the book back from him. "It's my mom's."

"I had a feeling."

She dropped it back on the table. "Luke?"

"Uh-huh?" The book already forgotten, he was rummaging in the tool kit next to the hearth. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out an orange plastic tape gun and gazed at it with deep satisfaction.

"What would you do if you saw something nobody else could see?"

The tape gun fell out of Luke's hand, and hit the tiled hearth. He knelt to pick it up, not looking at her. "You mean if I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?"

"No. I mean, if there were other people around, but you were the only one who could see something. As if it were invisible to everyone but you."

He hesitated, still kneeling, the dented tape gun gripped in his hand.

"I know it sounds crazy," Clary ventured nervously, "but…"

He turned around. His eyes, very blue behind the glasses, rested on her with a look of firm affection. "Clary, you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy-just different. There's nothing wrong with being different."

Clary pulled her legs up, and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind's eye she saw the storage room, Isabelle's white gold whip, the blue-haired boy convulsing in his death spasms... _Beauty and horror._ She said, "If my dad had lived, do you think he'd have been an artist too?"

Luke looked taken aback. Before he could answer her, the door swung open and Clary's mother stalked into the room, her boot heels clacking on the polished wooden floor. She handed Luke a set of jingling car keys and turned to look at her daughter.

Jocelyn Fray was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Clary's and twice as long. At the moment it was twisted up in a dark red knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt, and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.

People always told Clary that she looked like her mother, but she couldn't see it herself. The only thing that was similar about them was their figures: They were both slender, with small chests and narrow hips. She knew she wasn't beautiful like her mother was. To be beautiful you had to be willowy and tall. When you were as short as Clary was, just over 1.52m you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in carroty hair and a face full of freckles, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother's Barbie doll.

Jocelyn even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Clary, by contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she hurtled past them as she fell downstairs. It was kind of pitiful.

"Thanks for bringing the boxes up," Clary's mother said to Luke, and smiled at him. He didn't return the smile. Clary's stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly there was something going on. "Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today-"

"Mom?" Clary interrupted. "What are the boxes for?"

Jocelyn bit her lip. Luke flicked his eyes toward Clary, mutely urging Jocelyn forward. With a nervous twitch of her wrist, Jocelyn pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.

Up close Clary could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her lids were pearly with sleeplessness.

"Is this about last night?" Clary asked.

"No," her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. "Maybe a little. You shouldn't have done what you did last night. You know better."

"And I already apologized. What is this about? If you're grounding me, get it over with."

"I'm not," said her mother, "grounding you." Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Luke, who shook his head.

"Just tell her, Jocelyn," he said.

"Could you not talk about me like I'm not here?" Clary said angrily. "And what do you mean, tell me? Tell me what?"

Jocelyn expelled a sigh. "We're going on vacation."

Luke's expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.

Clary shook her head. "That's what this is about? You're going on vacation?" She sank back against the cushions. "I don't get it. Why the big production?"

"I don't think you understand. I meant we're all going on vacation. The three of us-you, me, and Luke. We're going to the farmhouse."

"Oh." Clary glanced at Luke, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate New York-he'd bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. "For how long?"

"For the rest of the summer," said Jocelyn. "I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, painting supplies-"

" _For the rest of the summer?_ " Clary sat upright with indignation. "I can't do that, Mom. I have plans-Simon and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I've got a bunch of meetings with my art group, and ten more classes at Tisch-"

"I'm sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Simon will understand, and so will your art group."

Clary heard the implacability in her mother's tone and realized she was serious. "But I paid for those art classes! I saved up all year! You promised." She whirled, turning to Luke. "It isn't fair!"

Luke didn't look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. "She's your mother. It's her decision to make."

"I don't get it." Clary turned back to her mother. "Why?"

"I have to get away, Clary," Jocelyn said, the corners of her mouth trembling. "I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now-"

"So sell some more of Dad's stocks," Clary said angrily. "That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

Jocelyn recoiled. "That's hardly fair."

"Look, go if you want to go. I don't care. I'll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at Starbucks or something. Simon said they're always hiring. I'm old enough to take care of myself-"

"No!" The sharpness in Jocelyn's voice made Clary jump. "I'll pay you back for the art classes, Clary. But you are coming with us. It isn't optional. You're too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen."

"Like what? What could happen?" Clary demanded.

There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Luke had knocked over one of the framed pictures leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a grim line. "I'm leaving."

Jocelyn bit her lip. "Wait." She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the doorknob. Twisting around on the sofa, Clary could just overhear her mother's urgent whisper."… Bane," Jocelyn was saying. "I've been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he's in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?"

"Jocelyn." Luke shook his head. "You can't keep going to him forever."

"But Clary-"

"Isn't Jonathan," Luke hissed. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Clary _isn't_ Jonathan."

_What does my father have to do with this?_ Clary thought, bewildered.

"I can't just keep her at home, not let her go out. She won't put up with it."

"Of course she won't!" Luke sounded really angry. "She's not a pet, she's a teenager. Almost an adult."

"If we were out of the city…"

"Talk to her, Jocelyn." Luke's voice was firm. "I mean it." He reached for the doorknob.

The door flew open. Jocelyn gave a little scream.

"Jesus!" Luke exclaimed.

"Actually, it's just me," said Simon. "Although I've been told the resemblance is startling." He waved at Clary from the doorway. "You ready?"

Jocelyn took her hand away from her mouth. "Simon, were you eavesdropping?"

Simon blinked. "No, I just got here." He looked from Jocelyn's pale face to Luke's grim one. "Is something wrong? Should I go?"

"Don't bother," Luke said. "I think we're done here." He pushed past Simon, thudding down the stairs at a rapid pace. Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.

Simon hovered in the doorway, looking uncertain. "I can come back later," he said. "Really. It wouldn't be a problem."

"That might-," Jocelyn began, but Clary was already on her feet.

"Forget it, Simon. We're leaving," she said, grabbing her messenger bag from a hook near the door. She slung it over her shoulder, glaring at her mother. "See you later, Mom."

Jocelyn bit her lip. "Clary, don't you think we should talk about this?"

"We'll have plenty of time to talk while we're on 'vacation,'" Clary said venomously, and had the satisfaction of seeing her mother flinch. "Don't wait up," she added, and, grabbing Simon's arm, she half-dragged him out the front door.

He dug his heels in, looking apologetically over his shoulder at Clary's mother, who stood small and forlorn in the entryway, her hands knitted tightly together. "Bye, Mrs. Fray!" he called. "Have a nice evening!"

"Oh, shut up, Simon," Clary snapped, and slammed the door behind them, cutting off her mother's reply.

* * *

"Jesus, woman, don't rip my arm off," Simon protested as Clary hauled him downstairs after her, her green Skechers slapping against the wooden stairs with every angry step. She glanced up, half-expecting to see her mother glaring down from the landing, but the apartment door stayed shut.

"Sorry," Clary muttered, letting go of his wrist. She paused at the foot of the stairs, her messenger bag banging against her hip.

Clary's brownstone, like most in Park Slope, had once been the single residence of a wealthy family. Shades of its former grandeur were still evident in the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the wide single-paned skylight overhead. Now the house was split into separate apartments, and Clary and her mother shared the three-floor building with a downstairs tenant, an elderly woman who ran a psychic's shop out of her apartment. She hardly ever came out of it, though customer visits were infrequent. A gold plaque fixed to the door proclaimed her to be madame DOROTHEA, SEERESS AND PROPHETESS.

The thick sweet scent of incense spilled from the half-open door into the foyer. Clary could hear a low murmur of voices.

"Nice to see she's doing a booming business," Simon said. "It's hard to get steady prophet work these days."

"Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?" Clary snapped.

Simon blinked, clearly taken aback. "I thought you liked it when I was witty and ironic."

Clary was about to reply when the door to Madame Dorothea's swung fully open and a man stepped out. He was tall, with maple-syrup-colored skin, gold-green eyes like a cat's, and tangled black hair. He grinned at her blindingly, showing sharp white teeth.

A wave of dizziness came over her, the strong sensation that she was going to faint.

Simon glanced at her uneasily. "Are you all right? You look like you're going to pass out."

She blinked at him. "What? No, I'm fine."

He didn't seem to want to let it drop. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

She shook her head. The memory of having seen something teased her, but when she tried to concentrate, it slid away like water. "Nothing. I thought I saw Dorothea's cat, but I guess it was just a trick of the light." Simon stared at her. "I haven't eaten anything since yesterday," she added defensively. "I guess I'm a little out of it."

He slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Come on, I'll buy you some food."

* * *

"I just can't believe she's being like this," Clary said for the fourth time, chasing a stray bit of guacamole around her plate with the tip of a nacho. They were at a neighborhood Mexican joint, a hole in the wall called Nacho Mama. "Like grounding me every other week wasn't bad enough. Now I'm going to be exiled for the rest of the summer."

"Well, you know, your mom gets like this sometimes," Simon said. "Like when she breathes in or out." He grinned at her around his veggie burrito.

"Oh, sure, act like it's funny," she said." _You_ 're not the one getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere for God knows how long-"

_"Clary."_ Simon interrupted her tirade. "I'm not the one you're mad at. Besides, it isn't going to be permanent."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, because I know your mom," Simon said, after a pause. "I mean, you and I have been friends for what, ten years now? I know she gets like this sometimes. She'll think better of it."

Clary picked a hot pepper off her plate and nibbled the edge meditatively. "Do you, though?" she said. "Know her, I mean? I sometimes wonder if anyone does."

Simon blinked at her. "You lost me there."

Clary sucked in air to cool her burning mouth. "I mean, she never talks about herself. I don't know anything about her early life, or her family, or much about how she met my dad. She doesn't even have wedding photos. It's like her life started when she had me. That's what she always says when I ask her about it."

"Aw." Simon made a face at her. "That's sweet."

"No, it isn't. It's weird. It's weird that I don't know anything about my grandparents. I mean, I know my dad's parents weren't very nice to her, but could they have been _that_ bad? What kind of people don't want to even meet their granddaughter?"

"Maybe she hates them. Maybe they were abusive or something," Simon suggested. "She does have those scars."

Clary stared at him. "She has what?"

He swallowed a mouthful of burrito. "Those little thin scars. All over her back and her arms. I might not have slept with her, but I _have_ seen your mother in a bathing suit, you know."

"I never noticed any scars," Clary said decidedly. "I think you're imagining things."

He stared at her, and seemed about to say something when her cell phone, buried in her messenger bag, began an insistent blaring. Clary fished it out, gazed at the numbers blinking on the screen, and scowled. "It's my mom."

"I could tell from the look on your face. You going to talk to her?"

"Not right now," Clary said, feeling the familiar bite of guilt in her stomach as the phone stopped ringing and voice mail picked up. "I don't want to fight with her."

"You can always stay at my house," Simon said. "For as long as you want."

"Well, we'll see if she calms down first." Clary punched the voice mail button on her phone. Her mother's voice sounded tense, but she was clearly trying for lightness: "Baby, I'm sorry if I sprang the vacation plan on you. Come on home and we'll talk." Clary hung the phone up before the message ended, feeling even guiltier and still angry at the same time. "She wants to talk about it."

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"I don't know." Clary rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. "Are you still going to the poetry reading?"

"I promised I would."

Clary stood up, pushing her chair back. "Then I'll go with you. I'll call her when it's over." The strap of her messenger bag slid down her arm. Simon pushed it back up absently, his fingers lingering at the bare skin of her shoulder.

The air outside was spongy with moisture, the humidity frizzing Clary's hair and sticking Simon's blue T-shirt to his back. "So, what's up with the band?" she asked. "Anything new? There was a lot of yelling in the background when I talked to you earlier."

Simon's face lit up. "Things are great," he said. "Matt says he knows someone who could get us a gig at the Scrap Bar. We're talking about names again too."

"Oh, yeah?" Clary hid a smile. Simon's band never actually produced any music. Mostly they sat around in Simon's living room, fighting about potential names and band logos. She sometimes wondered if any of them could actually play an instrument. "What's on the table?"

"We're choosing between Sea Vegetable Conspiracy and Rock Solid Panda."

Clary shook her head. "Those are both terrible."

"Eric suggested Lawn Chair Crisis."

"Maybe Eric should stick to gaming."

"But then we'd have to find a new drummer."

"Oh, is _that_ what Eric does? I thought he just mooched money off you and went around telling girls at school that he was in a band in order to impress them."

"Not at all," Simon said breezily. "Eric has turned over a new leaf. He came out, has a boyfriend. They've been going out for three months."

_So no Siric then? Shame._ "Practically married," Clary said, stepping around a couple pushing a toddler in a stroller: a little girl with yellow plastic clips in her hair who was clutching a pixie doll with gold-streaked sapphire wings. Out of the corner of her eye Clary thought she saw the wings flutter. She turned her head hastily.

"Which means," Simon continued, "that I am the last member of the band _not_ to have a partner. Which, you know, is the whole point of being in a band. To get numbers."

"I thought it was all about the music." A man with a cane cut across her path, heading for Berkeley Street. She glanced away, afraid that if she looked at anyone for too long they would sprout wings, extra arms, or long forked tongues like snakes. "Who cares if you have a partner or not, anyway?"

"I care," Simon said gloomily. "Pretty soon the only people left without a partner will be me and Wendell the school janitor. And he smells like Windex."

"At least you know he's still available."

Simon glared. "Not funny, Fray."

"There's always Sheila 'The Thong' Barbarino," Clary suggested. Clary had sat behind her in math class in ninth grade. Every time Sheila had dropped her pencil-which had been often-Clary had been treated to the sight of Sheila's underwear riding up above the waistband of her super-low-rise jeans.

"Ugh, no. Panromantic but still ace, remember? That girl would try to jump my bones at every chance, and while I am not completely repulsed by the whole sex thing, she is a whole other level" Simon said. "It makes my skin crawl just to think about it." He shuddered theatrically.

"Maybe you should call the band The Ace Repulsion."

"It has a ring to it." Simon seemed unfazed. Clary made a face at him, her messenger bag vibrating as her phone blared. She fished it out of the zip pocket. "Is it your mom again?" he asked.

Clary nodded. She could see her mother in her mind's eye, small and alone in the doorway of their apartment. Guilt unfurled in her chest.

She glanced up at Simon, who was looking at her, his eyes dark with concern. His face was so familiar she could have traced its lines in her sleep. She thought of the lonely weeks that stretched ahead without him, and shoved the phone back into her bag. "Come on," she said. "We're going to be late for the show."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I did not change much at all in this chapter, but there wasn't much to work with. Will keep updating! Remember to leave kudos, and a comment with what you wish, and I might make it true :)  
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com


	3. Rainbowhunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! We get to see Izzy again. Clizzy ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, bitches.  
> -A.  
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com

By the time they got to Java Jones, Eric was already onstage, swaying back and forth in front of the microphone with his eyes squished shut. He'd dyed the tips of his hair pink for the occasion. Behind him, Matt, looking stoned, was beating irregularly on a drum.

"This is going to suck so hard," Clary predicted. She grabbed Simon's sleeve and tugged him toward the doorway. "If we make a run for it, we can still get away."

He shook his head determinedly. "I'm nothing if not a man of my word." He squared his shoulders. "I'll get the coffee if you find us a seat. What do you want?"

"Just coffee. Black,  _like my soul_."

Simon headed off toward the coffee bar, muttering under his breath something to the effect that it was a far, far better thing he did now than he had ever done before. Clary went to find them a seat.

The coffee shop was crowded for a Monday; most of the threadbare-looking couches and armchairs were taken up with teenagers enjoying a free weeknight. The smell of coffee and clove cigarettes was overwhelming. Finally Clary found an unoccupied love seat in a darkened corner toward the back. The only other person nearby was a blond girl in an orange tank top, absorbed in playing with her iPod. _Good,_ Clary thought, _Eric won't be able to find us back here after the show to ask how his awful poetry was_.

The blond girl leaned over the side of her chair and tapped Clary on the shoulder. "Excuse me." Clary looked up in surprise. "Is that your boyfriend?" the girl asked.

Clary followed the line of the girl's gaze, already prepared to say, _No,I don't know him_ , when she realized the girl meant Simon. He was headed toward them, face scrunched up in concentration as he tried not to drop either of his Styrofoam cups. "Uh, no," Clary said. "He's a friend of mine."

The girl beamed. "He's cute. Does he have a girlfriend?"

Clary hesitated for a second before replying. "No."

The girl grinned. "What about you?"

Clary was spared responding to this by Simon's return. The blond girl sat back hastily as be set the cups on the table and threw himself down next to Clary. "I hate it when they run out of mugs. Those things are hot." He blew on his fingers and scowled. Clary tried to hide a smile as she watched him. Normally she never thought about whether Simon was good-looking or not. He had pretty dark eyes, she supposed, and he'd filled out well over the past year or so. With the right haircut, maybe she could set him up with her. "You're staring at me," Simon said. "Why are you staring at me? Have I got something on my face?"

 _I should tell him_ , she thought, though some part of her was strangely reluctant. She knew Simon, and he was definitely not well-versed in making girls, or guys, or anyone really, swoon. "Don't look now, but that blond girl over there thinks you're cute," she whispered, hoping this time he would get it right.

Simon's eyes flicked sideways to stare at the girl, who was industriously studying an issue of _Shonen Jump_."The girl in the orange top?" Clary nodded. Simon looked dubious. "What makes you think so?"

Clary opened her mouth to reply, and was interrupted by a burst of feedback. She winced and covered her ears as Eric, onstage, wrestled with his microphone.

"Sorry about that, guys!" he yelled. "All right. I'm Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'" He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. _"Come, my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slatherevery protuberance with arid zeal!"_

Simon slid down in his seat. "Please don't tell anyone I know him."

Clary giggled. "Who uses the word loins'?"

"Eric," Simon said grimly. "All his poems have loins in them."

 _"Turgid is my torment!"_ Eric wailed.  _Agony swells within!"_

"You bet it does," Clary said. She slid down in the seat next to Simon. "Anyway, about that girl who thinks you're cute-"

"Never mind that for a second," Simon said. Clary blinked at him in surprise. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Furious Mole is not a good name for a band," Clary said immediately.

"Not that," Simon said. "It's about what we were talking about before. About me not having a partner."

"Oh." Clary lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Oh, I don't know. Ask Rachel Earl out," she suggested, naming one of the few girls at St. Xavier's she actually liked. "She's nice, and she likes you."

"Isn't she with Finn? And, anyway, I don't want to ask Rae out."

"Why not?" Clary found herself seized with a sudden, unspecific resentment. She guesses she just felt protective over her friend. "You don't like smart girls? Seeking _'a rockin' bod'_?"

"Neither," said Simon, who seemed agitated. "I don't want to ask her out because it wouldn't really be fair to her if I did…" He trailed off.

Clary leaned forward. "Why not?"

"Because I like someone else," Simon said.

"Okay." Simon looked faintly greenish, the way he had once when he'd broken his ankle playing soccer in the park and had had to limp home on it. She wondered what on earth about liking someone could possibly have him wound up to such a pitch of anxiety.

"So, who is it, then?" Clary asked. She was about to add that if he were in love with Eric, his boyfriend would kick his ass, when she heard someone cough loudly behind her. It was a derisive sort of cough, the kind of noise someone might make who was trying not to laugh out loud.

She turned around.

Sitting on a faded green sofa a few feet away from her were Jace and Isabelle. He was wearing the same dark clothes he'd had on the night before in the club, his arms were bare and covered with faint white lines like old scars. Isabelle's wrists, however, bore one thin silver cuff; from which she could see the bone handle of a small blades protruding, probably some sort of darts, while her other wrist had a snake-shaped bracelet that climbed up up to mid-forearm. They were looking right at her, the side of Jace's mouth quirked in amusement, while Isabelle seemed uncomfortable. Worse than the feeling of being laughed at was Clary's absolute conviction that both Izzy and Jace had heard **_everything_**.

"What is it?" Simon had followed her gaze, but it was obvious from the blank expression on his face that he couldn't see the shadowhunters..

 _But I see you._ She stared at Jace as she thought it, and he raised his left hand to wave at her. A ring glittered on a slim finger. Isabelle was not in a playful mood, however, and got to her feet, ready to walk away towards the door. Clary's lips parted in surprise. A part of her was hoping Isabelle would comfort her while stopping Jace from making fun of Simon. But she did not. She got up, and walked through the door, without looking back.

She felt Simon's hand on her arm. He was saying her name, asking her if something was wrong. She barely heard him. "I'll be right back," she heard herself say, as she sprang off the couch, almost forgetting to set her coffee cup down. She raced toward the door, leaving Simon staring after her.

* * *

 

Clary burst through the doors, terrified that Isabelle would have vanished into the alley shadows like a ghost. But she was there, slouched against the wall. She had a paper filled with tobacco on her hands, filter on the right side, and seemed to be struggling to adjust her grip on it enough to get it over with. She did not look up as the door of the coffee shop fell shut behind her.

"I know, I know. But Alec isn't here, so just shut up and let me enjoy it." Izzy paused to lick the cigarette closed. Clary was entranced by her tongue. "Besides, if I had to hear the rest of that path-"

"I am not Alec," Clary cut in, "nor Jace."

The shadowhunter looked up, surprised. "Mundie." She nodded in acknowledgement, lowering her head again, making herself busy by lighting the cigarette.

"You know, that sounds an awful lot like a slur." Clary replied, with a scowl.

"So what if it is?" Isabelle released the smoke against the redhead's face, who barely avoided coughing as the air took a second to clear up. The first thing she saw was the raven-haired girl's smirk. "Don't you have a mundane boyfriend to get back to?"

"He is not my boyfriend." Clary said. "And if you've been listening for as long as I think you've, you know that."

"But he was about to become just that." Izzy affirmed.

"How are you so sure?"

"I know people." She shrugged.

"You don't know who he is."

"He is a man, and a weak 'nice' one, no offence. It is not exactly hard to figure out what would have happened."

The girl had fucking nerve. "Just who the hell do you think you are, mm?"

"Don't get mad at me, I am just stating the facts." Isabelle shrugged again, detached.

"Oh, come on, tell me then, great oracle, 'facts girl'" The redhead challenged.

"If you insist..." Izzy threw the remaining cigarette to the ground and crushed it with her boot, before looking straight into Clary's eyes for the first time. Both of them gulped, but none of them noticed the other doing the same. "He would have confessed he liked you. It would have taken him forever, but he would."

"So what if he had?"

"You would have said yes."

"And you care because...?"

The shadowhunter ignored her, "you don't like him back." Sensing Clary was about to open her mouth, Isabelle rushed to speak again, "you love him, that is true. But you aren't in love with him, and never could be. And he probably isn't in love with you either, only thinks he is. But, of course, you already know this." Isabelle raised her hand, stopping Clary again, "you don't strike me as the dummy that would not have realised where that was going. Hell, I knew from the moment he walked on us in PAN!demonium. And if you haven't said anything, and are always trying to set him up with other people, listing alternatives and never helping him tell you... Well, let's say it is obvious you don't fell that way."

"So how does he become my boyfriend, if I supposedly cannot feel that way about him?"

"You are too nice."

"What?"

Isabelle sighed, walking slowly but with purpose towards Clary. "You would feel bad. You would think, why not? Might as well try. You would conform, too scared of hurting him. Too scared of not trying, of missing out, of taking a risk. Which is ironic, considering entering any relationship is usually seen as a risk, but not this one. Simon is just so mundane, so... Safe."

The redhead felt a bit insulted even, taking one step towards the now immobile brunette. "I am an artist. I have passion, I don't simply play safe."

Isabelle arched an eyebrow, issuing a challenge, "prove it," she said, as she moved one step closer, now face to face with Clary, their eyes never parting.

The air seemed to condense around them, tension quickly multiplying each passing moment, as Clary seemed to ponder it. She nodded, "I will", she accepted, slightly leaning in, stopping and looking into Izzy's eyes, seeking any kind of reassurance that it was okay. The move was not necessary, though, as soon Isabelle had grabbed the back of her neck and was slowly parting her lips as she inclined her head, their noses bumping together, their breaths mixing, their eyelashes fluttering closed, their lips t-

Her mother's ringtone went off. They both jumped back, startled. Clary quickly denied the call, and looked apologetically at Isabelle, who seemed to barely have noticed the distraction, her eyes still fixed on the other's mouth. Clary was about to give in and press herself against the girl again, like she so desperately wanted to, when something happened. Simon happened.

"Clary?"  _Worst. Timing. Ever._

"Y-yeah?" 

 "What were you doing?" Simon asked, Jace appearing right behind him.

"Uh, n-nothing." The redhead was positive she looked like a carrot, thanks to her hair and now flushed cheeks.

"Clary, it looked like you were about to smooch the air."  _Oh, right, the whole invisibility thing._

Jace stared at Isabelle in disbelief, shaking his head, and, in turn, Clary sent him a look capable of freezing hell over. "It really was nothing, Simon."

The oblivious boy did not seem to believe her, but he did not argue either. "Well, your mom has been calling like crazy and I didn't want to pick up because of how you left things bu-"

Her phone rang right then. And stopped, to then started up again, loud and insistent. Clary frowned-her mom must really be freaking out. She half-turned away from her public and began digging in her bag. By the time she unearthed the phone, it was on its third set of rings. She raised it to her ear. "Mom?"

"Oh, Clary. Oh, thank God." A sharp prickle of alarm ran up Clary's spine. Her mother sounded panicked. "Listen to me-"

"It's all right, Mom. I'm fine. I'm on my way home-"

" _No!_ " Terror scraped Jocelyn's voice raw. "Don't come home! Do you understand me, Clary? Don't you dare come home. Go to Simon's. Go straight to Simon's house and stay there until I can-" A noise in the background interrupted her: the sound of something falling, shattering, something heavy striking the floor-

"Mom!" Clary shouted into the phone. "Mom, are you all right?"

A loud buzzing noise came from the phone. Clary's mother's voice cut through the static: "Just promise me you won't come home. Go to Simon's and call Luke-tell him that he's found me-" Her words were drowned out by a heavy crash like splintering wood.

"Who's found you? Mom, did you call the police? Did you-"

Her frantic question was cut off by a noise Clary would never forget-a harsh, slithering noise, followed by a thump. Clary heard her mother draw in a sharp breath before speaking, her voice eerily calm: "I love you, Clary."

The phone went dead.

* * *

 

"Mom!" Clary shrieked into the phone. "Mom, are you there?" _Call ended_ , the screen said. But why would her mother have hung up like that?

"Clary," Isabelle said. It was the first time she'd ever heard her say her name.

"What's going on?" Jace asked.

Clary ignored them both. Feverishly she hit the button that dialed her home number. There was no answer except a double-tone busy signal.

Clary's hands had begun to shake uncontrollably. When she tried to redial, the phone slipped out of her shaking grasp and hit the pavement hard. She dropped to her knees to retrieve it, but it was dead, a long crack visible across the front. "Dammit!" Almost in tears, she threw the phone down.

"Has something happened?" Simon tried to place a hand over her shoulder. She moved before he could, pacing back and forth.

The redhead stopped suddenly, and turned towards Simon. "Give me your phone," Clary said, taking it from him.

She started fumbling with it, getting the password wrong enough times to block it for the next half an hour. "For God's sake! Fuck!"

"Cl-" Simon was interrupted by the girl harshly pushing the electronic device into his chest. The shove was so hard, he stood there breathless for a few seconds, his thorax pulsing.

"Listen, we can help you but you need to tell us what is going on." Isabelle intervened.

"My mum-" a choke cut her. Simon, Izzy and Jace all tried to approach her, comfort her.

Before anyone could react, she had taken off running, tears streaming down her face, clouding her vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot Isabelle smoking against a wall, hurt, is sort of my sadistic aesthetics.  
> Will keep updating, so subscribe! And remember to leave kudos and a comment, and I might make whatever you wish come true :)  
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com


	4. Ravener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run, Clary, run!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go again :)

The night had gotten even hotter, and running home felt like swimming as fast as she could through boiling soup. At the corner of her block Clary got trapped at a don't walk sign. She jittered up and down impatiently on the balls of her feet while traffic whizzed by in a blur of headlights.

Jogging up the street toward her house, she saw that the second-floor windows were lit, the usual sign that her mother was home.  _Okay_ , she told herself. _Everything's fine_. But her stomach tightened the moment she stepped into the entryway, and tears threatened to spill again. The overhead light had burned out, and the foyer was in darkness. The shadows seemed full of secret movement. Shivering, she started upstairs.

"And just where do you think you're going ?" said a voice.

Clary whirled. "What-"

She broke off. Her eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and she could see the shape of a large armchair, drawn up in front of Madame Dorothea's closed door. The old woman was wedged into it like an overstuffed cushion. In the dimness Clary could see only the round shape of her powdered face, the white lace fan in her hand, the dark, yawning gap of her mouth when she spoke. "Your mother," Dorothea said, "has been making a godawful racket up there. What's she doing? Moving furniture?"

"I don't think-"

"And the stairwell light's burned out, did you notice?" Dorothea rapped her fan against the arm of the chair. "Can't your mother get her boyfriend in to change it?"

"Luke isn't-"

"The skylight needs washing too. It's filthy. No wonder it's nearly pitch-black in here."

 _Luke is NOT the landlord_ , Clary wanted to say, but didn't. This was typical of her elderly neighbor. Once she got Luke to come around and change the lightbulb, she'd ask him to do a hundred other things-pick up her groceries, grout her shower. Once she'd made him chop up an old sofa with an axe so she could get it out of the apartment without taking the door off the hinges.

Clary sighed. "I'll ask."

"You'd better." Dorothea snapped her fan shut with a flick of her wrist.

Clary's sense that something was wrong only increased when she reached the apartment door. It was unlocked, hanging slightly open, spilling a wedge-shaped shaft of light onto the landing. With a feeling of increasing panic she pushed the door open.

Inside the apartment the lights were on, all the lamps, everything turned up to full brightness. The glow stabbed into her eyes.

Her mother's keys and pink handbag were on the small wrought iron shelf by the door, where she always left them. "Mom?" Clary called out. "Mom, I'm home."

There was no reply. She went into the living room. Both windows were open, yards of gauzy white curtains blowing in the breeze like restless ghosts. Only when the wind dropped and the curtains settled did Clary see that the cushions had been ripped from the sofa and scattered around the room. Some were torn lengthwise, cotton innards spilling onto the floor. The bookshelves had been tipped over, their contents scattered. The piano bench lay on its side, gaping open like a wound, Jocelyn's beloved music books spewing out.

Most terrifying were the paintings. Every single one had been cut from its frame and ripped into strips, which were scattered across the floor. It must have been done with a knife-canvas was almost impossible to tear with your bare hands. The empty frames looked like bones picked clean. Clary felt a scream rising up in her chest:"Mom!" she shrieked."Where are you? Mommy!"

She hadn't called Jocelyn "Mommy" since she was eight.

Heart pumping, she raced into the kitchen. It was empty, the cabinet doors open, a smashed bottle of Tabasco sauce spilling peppery red liquid onto the linoleum. Her knees felt like bags of water. She knew she should race out of the apartment, get to a phone, call the police. But all those things seemed distant-she needed to find her mother first, needed to see that she was all right. What if robbers had come, what if her mother had put up a fight-?

_What kind of robbers didn't take a wallet with them, or the TV, the DVD player, or the expensive laptops?_

She went upstairs, standing at the door to her mother's bedroom now. For a moment it looked as if this room, at least, had been left untouched. Jocelyn's handmade flowered quilt was folded carefully on the duvet. Clary's own face smiled back at her from the top of the bedside table, five years old, gap-toothed smile framed by strawberry hair. A sob rose in Clary's chest. _Mom_ , she cried inside, _what happened to you?_

Silence answered her. No, not silence-a noise sounded through the apartment, raising the short hairs along the nape of her neck. Like something being knocked over-a heavy object striking the floor with a dull thud. The thud was followed by a dragging, slithering noise-and it was coming toward the bedroom. Stomach contracting in terror, Clary scrambled to her feet and turned around slowly.

For a moment she thought the doorway was empty, and she felt a wave of relief. Then she looked down.

It was crouched against the floor, a long, scaled creature with a cluster of flat black eyes set dead center in the front of its domed skull. Something like a cross between an alligator and a centipede, it had a thick, flat snout and a barbed tail that whipped menacingly from side to side. Multiple legs bunched underneath it as it readied itself to spring.

A shriek tore itself out of Clary's throat. She staggered backward, tripped, and fell, just as the creature lunged at her. She rolled to the side and it missed her by inches, sliding along the wood floor, its claws gouging deep grooves. A low growl bubbled from its throat.

She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the hallway, but the thing was too fast for her. It sprang again, landing just above the door, where it hung like a gigantic malignant spider, staring down at her with its cluster of eyes. Its jaws opened slowly, showing a row of fanged teeth spilling greenish drool. A long black tongue flickered out between its jaws as it gurgled and hissed. To her horror Clary realized that the noises it was making were words.

"Girl," it hissed. "Flesh. Blood. To eat, oh, to eat."

It began to slither slowly down the wall. Some part of Clary had passed beyond terror into a sort of icy stillness. The thing was on its feet now, crawling toward her. Backing away, she seized a heavy framed photo off the bureau beside her-herself and her mother and Luke at Coney Island, about to go on the bumper cars-and flung it at the monster.

The photograph hit its midsection and bounced off, striking the floor with the sound of shattering glass. The creature didn't seem to notice. It came on toward her, broken glass splintering under its feet. "Bones, to crunch, to suck out the marrow, to drink the veins…"

Clary continued backing up, fully aware that the wall would soon stop her. In her panic, she dug her keys out of her pocket and held one between each finger. of her right hand. If she were to die, she would do so fighting. She may not have the skills, but she knew how to throw a punch and mentally prepared herself for what was to come.  _Thumbs outside unless you want them to end up broken, fingers not doubled into two but into three, pressing against the soft flesh where they end and not against the center of the palm, pointer and middle finger give out less easily. Or was it the way around? God._

The beast was reading itself to jump on her when she heard a knock. 

"Do _not_ come in, Simon!" She shouted, scared for her friend.

"Not Simon." A familiar male voice answered.

Clary's answer to that was a loud incoherent shout, as the monster launched itself onto her and knocked her off her feet. It bit into her shoulder, and she screamed.

"Okay! We are going in!" Isabelle's voice reached her, as a loud hit and footsteps were heard.

"We are coming for you! Where are you?" Jace shouted.

"You didn't need to kick the door, it was wide open." Said Izzy.

"You two, look downstairs, I'll head upstairs, go!" The male voice ordered.

Clary groaned loudly as she struggled to pull her armed hand towards the creatures face, and punched it as hard as she could, driving one of the key's through its eyes. She did not care, though, and punched it again, effectively throwing it to her side. She quickly stood up and the beast stared at her through her healthy eye, while the injured one did not bleed, did not anything. There was just a hole where her key had entered it, and it was quickly healing. She was speechless, surprised to no end, and feeling weaker with each passing moment.

Luckily, on one hand, the creature seemed to be shocked too, probably more due to the fact it did not expect any resistance than due to the actual wounds it had suffered.

Unluckily, on the other hand, it recovered much faster than herself, and the redhead did not have time to react as it jumped on her,  _yet again_.

However, this time. when they fell, the creature shrieked, and did not try to bite her. It convulsed on top of her and then fell flat, a dark liquid dripping from what appeared to be the centre of its back. As with the boy in the club, the monster started to become smaller and smaller, until, in a matter of seconds, it was gone, a lone arrow sitting on top of Clary's chest.

"Found her!" Alec shouted to the stairs, before turning back towards the redhead. "You getting up or what?"

"Y-yeah, sure, tha-anks." Clary stammered, as she sat down. She grabbed the arrow on her lap and tried to use her free hand to get up. Tried being the key word because as soon as her butt was halfway up, her knees gave up, and everything went dark.

* * *

Light stabbed through her eyelids, blue, white, and red. There was a high wailing noise, rising in pitch like the scream of a terrified child. Clary gagged and opened her eyes.

She was lying on her head on something soft and warm, her body cold damp grass. The night sky rippled overhead, the pewter gleam of stars washed out by city lights. Jace knelt beside her, the silver cuffs on his wrists throwing off sparks of light as he tore the piece of cloth he was holding into strips. "Don't move."

She tried to look back, identify where she was, what she was lying on, but soft hands noticed and kept her in position. "Don't move. Seriously." Isabelle repeated, softer than the other shadowhunter had. "You're going to be alright, just... don't move."

 _Well, that explains the soft pillow_ , Clary thought.

"That Ravener demon got you in the back of the neck. It was half-dead so it wasn't much of a sting, but we have to get you to the Institute. Hold still." Jace commanded.

She was about to protest when she felt one of the soft hands shooting to her scalp, massaging it, soothing her. She swallowed and decided not to be mean to her rescuers. "That thing... It talked."

"You've heard demons talk before." Alec intervened, as he walked to stand in front of her.

Jace's hands were gentle but firm as he slipped the strip of knotted cloth under her neck, and tied it. It was smeared with something waxy, like the gardener's salve her mother used to keep her paint- and turpentine-abused hands soft.

"The demon in PAN!demonium-it looked like a person."

Jace took over the explanation. "It was an Eidolon demon. A shape-changer. Raveners look like they look. Not very attractive, but they're too stupid to care."

"It said it was going to eat me."

"But it didn't." Alec sounded almost sorry things had gone that way.

"No, it didn't, you fought it off long enough for us to arrive." Clary would have flushed upon hearing Isabelle's word, had she not lost so much blood already.

Jace finished the knot and sat back. "Since when are you nice instead of cruel, Isabelle?"

"I  _am_ nice, not cruel."

"You can be incredibly mean, though."

"Everyone can be incredibly mean at times."

They stared at each other, almost as if it was a game of chicken. Clary did not have the time to stand there and watch that.

"My mom..." Clary decided to cut in.

"She can wait." Jace said, suddenly serious again. "There's Ravener poison coursing through your veins right now. You'll be dead in an hour if you don't come with us." He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. She took it and he pulled her upright. "Come on."

The moment he let go of her, she stumbled, and was about to fall down when Isabelle caught her. She slid a hand across her back, holding her steady. She smelled like blood, cigarettes and metal. It should have been disgusting, but Clary could not see it that way. "I'll help you walk, okay?"

"Thanks." Clary smiled at the brunette. She then glanced through the densely blooming bushes, where the police coming up the path. One of them, a slim blond woman, held a flashlight in one hand. As she raised it, Clary saw the hand was fleshless, a skeleton hand sharpened to bone points at the fingertips. "Her hand-"

Alec glanced at the back of the house. "We have to get out of here. Let's go through the alley."

Clary shook her head. "It's bricked up. There's no way-" Her words dissolved into a fit of coughing. She raised her hand to cover her mouth. It came away red. She whimpered.

Jace approached them and grabbed her wrist, turned it over so the white, vulnerable flesh of her inner arm lay bare under the moonlight. Traceries of blue vein mapped the inside of her skin, carrying poisoned blood to her heart, her brain. Clary felt her knees buckle. There was something in Jace's hand, something sharp and silver. She tried to pull her hand back, but his grip was too hard.

" _Jace!_ " Isabelle said.

The blond turned towards her, stopping his movements. "She is already dead if we don't, Izzy, it is the only way."

The brunette looked towards her brother, hoping to find support. But he avoided her gaze. She turned towards the other shadowhunter, who seemed to be waiting for her approval. She, very reluctantly, nodded. 

When it happened, Clary felt a stinging kiss against her skin. When he let go, she saw an inked black symbol like the ones that covered their skin, just below the fold of her wrist. This one looked like a set of overlapping circles.

"What's that supposed to do?"

"It'll hide you," he said. "Temporarily." He slid the thing Clary had thought was a knife back into his belt. It was a long, luminous cylinder, as thick around as an index finger and tapering to a point. "My stele," he said.

Clary didn't ask what that was. She was busy trying not to fall over. The ground was heaving up and down under her feet. "Isabelle," she said, and she crumpled into her. She quickly caught her as if she were used to catching fainting girls, as if she did it every day. Maybe she did. She swung her up into her arms, saying something in her ear that she could not quite catch, but she felt reassured anyway. Clary tipped her head back to look at her, but saw only the stars cartwheeling across the dark sky overhead. She tried to focus on the stars, but they were fading from the sky.

Clary fainted with arms firmly wrapped around her, and an angelical voice whispering just for her.

Clary fainted, but her barely-there smile stayed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, keep leaving feedback :)  
> And you can find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com


	5. Not an update

Basically, I just wanted to let you guys know I am traveling and that's why I haven't updated. But that I will as soon as I can.


	6. Waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God Clary in the original DID picture Isabelle naked in her dreams. My God, the gayness.  
> I am borrowing Octavia from the 100, as I need extra shadow hunters and I don't want to be constantly relying on making the characters close to canon, while borrowing from a different show allows me to change her as I please to fit this universe, while still having a base. Plus, we need more female badassery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am 100% drunk. And still on holidays, but felt bad about leaving you guys hanging for so long, so here you go :)  
> PS: Writing this on my phone was a bitch, to say the least.  
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com

 "Do you think she'll ever wake up?"

 "You have to give her time. Demon poison is strong stuff, and she's a mundane. She hasn't got runes to keep her strong like we do."

"But she had the Iratze and the Angelic rune. Mundies die awfully easily, don't they?"

"Isabelle, you know it's bad luck to talk about death in a sickroom. Plus, we don't know what she is yet, she did get the Iratze."

There was a long pause.

"What if she doesn't wake up?"

"She will."

"But what if she doesn't?"

"You're just trying to annoy me, aren't you?"

"I've been by her side for three days and, let me tell you, she is not good at keeping a conversation going."

"Isabelle..."

"Hey, it is not like I want her to die or anything, you know. She is kinda cute, it would be a waste."

"Iz, enough."

"She is, though. Admit it."

"Fine, I guess she sort of is."

"Yay!"

* * *

_Three days_ , Clary thought slowly. All her thoughts ran as thickly and slowly as blood or honey. _I have to wake up._

But she couldn't.

 

The dreams held her, one after the other, a river of images that bore her along like a leaf tossed in a current. She saw her mother lying in a hospital bed, eyes like bruises in her white face. She saw Luke, standing atop a pile of bones. Jace with white feathered wings sprouting out of his back, Isabelle sitting naked with her whip curled around her like a net of rings, Simon with crosses burned into the palms of his hands. Angels, falling and burning. Falling out of the sky.

* * *

"Little thing, isn't she? She fought a Ravener."

 "Yeah. I thought she was a pixie the first time we saw her. She's pretty enough to be a pixie."

"I disagree."

"Well, nobody looks their best with demon poison in their veins."

"You're probably right. Is Hodge going to call on the Brothers?"

"I hope not. They give me the creeps. Anyone who mutilates themselves like that-"

"We mutilate ourselves."

"I know, O., but when we do it, it isn't permanent. And it doesn't always hurt..."

"If you're old enough. Speaking of which, where is Alec? He saved her, didn't he? I would have thought he'd take some interest in her recovery."

"Hodge said he hasn't been to see her since he brought her here. I guess he is probably somewhere doing who-knows-what with Jace."

"Sometimes I wonder if he-Look! She moved!"  
"I guess she's alive after all." A sigh. "I'll tell Hodge."

* * *

Clary's eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She imagined she could feel tearing skin as she peeled them slowly open and blinked for the first time in three days.

She saw clear blue sky above her, white puffy clouds and chubby angels with gilded ribbons trailing from their wrists. _Am I dead?_ she wondered. _Could heaven actually look like this?_ She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again: This time she realized that what she was staring at was an arched wooden ceiling, painted with a rococo motif of clouds and cherubs.

Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Every part of her ached, especially the back of her neck. She glanced around. She was tucked into a linen-sheeted bed, one of a long row of similar beds with metal headboards. Her bed had a small nightstand beside it with a white pitcher and cup on it. Lace curtains were pulled across the windows, blocking the light, although she could hear the faint, ever-present New York sounds of traffic coming from outside.

 

"So, you're finally awake," said a seemingly disinterested voice. "Hodge will be pleased. We all thought you'd probably die in your sleep."

Clary turned. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, her long jet-black hair wound into two thick braids that fell past her waist. Her white dress had been replaced by jeans and a tight blue tank top, though the red pendant still winked at her throat. Her dark spiraling tattoos were gone; her skin was as unblemished as the surface of a bowl of cream. Clary idly wondered what was the other girl's skin care routine.

"Is this the Institute?" Clary's voice rasped like sandpaper.

"Yes. You're in the infirmary, not that you haven't figured that out already."

A sudden, stabbing pain made Clary clutch at her stomach. She gasped.

Isabelle looked at her in alarm, jumping to her feet and closing the distance between the two. "Are you okay?"

The pain was fading, but Clary was aware of an acid feeling in the back of her throat and a strange light-headedness. "My stomach."

"Oh, right. I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up." Isabelle grabbed for the ceramic pitcher and poured some of the contents into the matching cup, which she handed to Clary. It was full of a cloudy liquid that steamed slightly. It smelled like herbs and something else, something rich and dark. "You haven't eaten anything in three days," Isabelle pointed out. "That's probably why you feel sick."

Clary gingerly took a sip. It was delicious, rich and satisfying with a buttery aftertaste. "What is this?"

Isabelle shrugged. "One of Hodge's tisanes. They always work." She slid back on the bed, landing on the mattress upside down, staring at the redhead while making herself comfortable with a catlike arch of her back. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here."

"I know your name. I'm Clary. Clary Fray, not that you haven't figured that out already." Clary could not help but tease, despite the tension obvious in the air. "Did you bring me here?"

"Uhm, not quite. We ran into a demon on our way here and Alec carried you from there."

"A demon? And Alec? Of all three of you,  _he_ offered himself to carry me?"

"A minor one. The demon, I mean. On the subject of Alec... I know it seems hard to believe, but he is a good guy, and I am not saying that just because he is my brother."

"He surely makes it hard to believe, yeah."

"He is... Look, Alec has things to deal with, and that no one's business but his own, even if he probably feels like it's about us. He is that self-less when he loves. The thing is, it takes him an awfully long time to warm up to anyone, he is closed off, protective over himself, but more so of Jace and me."

Clary understood that and, even though she was not ecstatic about being a sitting duck in front of the hostile shadowhunter, but she was willing to give him at least a couple of chances. A sudden thought entered her mind.

"Is it okay if I am here? Even though I am not like you."

"Nobody is like me." Isabelle flipped her hair, showing off her cocky side.

"You know what I meant."

"But you didn't disagree, did you?" Isabelle stepped off the bed, and sat next to Clary. "I am not going to lie to you. Hodge wasn't pleased you were here. You got blood everywhere, and we don't even know who or what you are. But he will come around."

"Who is Hodge?"

"You'll find out soon enough, but he is basically our tutor." Isabelle paused to look at her. "You look pained. Lie down with me."

"What?"

"Lie down." Making an example out of herself, Izzy allowed herself to fall into the mattress, and shuffled until there was enough space for the redhead.

"With you?"

"So you heard me?" She grinned.

Clary rolled her eyes and looked away, in an attempt to hide the effect the brunette had on her. "Or I have eyes, you know."

"Whatever. Just rest." And Clary wanted to protest, but her eyelid felt heavy, and when she felt an arm pushing her down, and wrapping her, making her feel safe and cared for, she could not muster the strength to.

* * *

 "Mom!" Clary shouted startled, jumping awake from her nightmare. 

"Hey, hey, you're alright." Isabelle calmed her.

"You're not a dream." The redhead stared, in disbelief.

"Well, I would like to differ. I am quite dreamy, if I dare say so myself."

"You know, in a weird way, it doesn't fit you."

"To be dreamy?" Izzy feigned shock, moving her hand to her chest, as though something had gravely hurt her, "Again, I beg to differ."

"No, your cockiness."

That seemed to make the shadowhunter uncomfortable. "Come on, let's go find Hodge."

Isabelle got up, and waited for Clary to do the same, but the redhead would not go further than a sitting position.

"I-I don't have any clothes on. Where are my clothes?" She asked, holding the sheet tighter.

"I think Jace burned them."

"HE DID WHAT?"

"They were rendered completely useless after your one night stand with the ravener."

"What am I supposed to wear then? Or do you just want me to go around like this?"

Isabelle seemed to ponder on it, before shaking her head. "As much as I would love to, and, trust me, I would, it is probably for the best if you just borrow some of mine."

A butterfly flapped its wings inside both of the girls' chest just by thinking about it.

"Okay." Clary nodded, mouth suddenly dry. "What about Jace? Where is he? And does he make an habit out of burning everyone's clothes?"

"No, he is more of a ripping-clothes-out kind of guy, from what I've heard. It's sort of sexy, but I appreciate my wardrobe too much to be into it."

Sexy? What? "I thought he was your brother?"

"Oh, no, whatever gave you that idea?"

"He lives with you. Why doesn't he live with his parents?"

Isabelle looked uncomfortable while answering, "they are dead."

"Oh."

"Yeah... His mother died during labour, and his dad was killed when he was ten. He saw it all."

Clary suddenly felt bad for the blond boy, all jealousy vanishing from her. She might feel like an outsider in the institute, but she also found herself inexplicably bound to these new friends who had suddenly entered her life like an hurricane. Wait, were they her friends? What else could she call them?

"I am sorry. Was it demons?"

Izzy looked back apologetically, "don't be. He wouldn't want you to be. It turned him into one of the best, he has killed more demons than anyone his age. It's not my place to say anything more." She walked to the bed next to hers, lifted the mattress and grabbed something before throwing it at Clary. "Here, have this, I always have some spare clothes in here, just in case."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Clary was about to put them on, allowing the sheets to fall, when Isabelle's expression changed, and she turned around, stopping her stroll at the door. "By the way, you should probably shower before wearing anything. You reek."

"Thanks?" Her shift in attitude made the redhead incredibly confused. Were all the shadowhunters like this, only the cute ones, or only Isabelle?

"As I said, don't mention it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback always appreciated :)  
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure to leave your kudos and a comment, I might take your suggestions if I can :) Will keep updating, so subscribe! Thank you, all, have a great day :*  
> Find me at rocking-my-socks.tumblr.com


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